Viri Sunt Viri
by Grey L. Bloom
Summary: Grassroots feminism, attempted assassination, snake eyed loping bastards, vandalism, theft, murder, and a thousand elephants. Wait, no! No elephants. Everything else, though. [rated T for genitalia related humor and mild swearing]
1. Sed Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

Attention all fans of Terry Pratchett, fanfiction authors and readers alike -

... what you are about to read is a meager attempt at capturing the essence of a Discworld novel. There is no possible way that I, the way I am now, could ever get close to reconstructing the incredibly devious cleverness of an authentic Discworld novel or story. Nevertheless, I put effort into this. I have been writing it, off and on, for over two years, and it's still not done. All I'm getting out of this is any comments and reviews those who read it have to offer. Because, hey... everyone's gotta' start somewhere.

At any rate, this is my trip. Enjoy.

Chapter 1 - Sed Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

In an astonishingly timed coincidence, two watch commanders lit their cigars at the exact same moment.

One was Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork watch, who inhaled thirstily, extinguishing his match with an expert snap of the wrist. The smoke wafted through his office, hovering near the yellowed ceiling with a mind of its own, cramming itself into cracks in the aged plaster.

The other... was Commander Teren Carlin of the Al Khali watch, who inhaled, choked, spat, and promptly threw up.

Ahhh... the first cigar. Truly a magical experience.

* * *

It was February in Al Khali, and heat oozed lazily off of the cobble streets. The woman removed her sunglasses carefully, squinting in the desert glare, her pale skin splashed a delicate salmon-pink from the sun. Her auriental attendant twittered nervously at her side.

Their guide adjusted his turban, ill at ease. The women had arrived at the inn just this morning, with little luggage and less warning... but a lot of cash. That's what mattered, after all. But really... did it matter enough for this?

The woman looked down her nose at him. "Is this it?" she snapped shortly, biting off the words viciously. She seemed to end every sentence with a silent "you insolent pig".

"This is it, m'm, the Shifa Monument," he said, grinning loosely and gesturing semi-grandly at the small statue behind him. "Er... you were expecting something... more?"

She sniffed, and the sound grated against the husk of his brittle dignity. "It seems rather QUAINT, don't you think?" you insolent pig.

"It WAS created fifteen hundred years ago, m'm, in the Great Bronze Shortage of the Al-Hamil dynasty," he said, beginning to sweat in spite of himself.

The woman sniffed again, and began circling the statue slowly, as though on parade. The guide and the woman's attendant exchanged looks. The guide got the best of it, since the attendant was prettier and anxiously apologetic. The woman finished her rounds and glared, sideways, at her guide. "Is it PURE bronze?" you insolent pig.

"The records don't say, m'm," he said. "And the caretakers won't allow anyone to take it for testing."

"Hmph. I see." you insolent pig.

"Ah, if I may inquire," piped up the attendant, a pretty auriental girl with a round, uncertainly hopeful face, "what, exactly, is the story behind the Shifa Monument?"

The guide opened his mouth, but the woman cut him off. "Fine, but keep it short." you insolent pig.

He cleared his throat nervously. "Er," he started again. "The Shifa Monument glorifies the escapades of the legendary hero Shifa the Magnificent, who wrenched control of the desert from the vengeful and ugly goddess Barrieh, granting man power over his own... er... destiny." He slowed as he saw the woman glaring venomously at him.

"...Um," he said.

"Granting MAN power?" she said, her voice hard. "Vengeful? Ugly? Since WHEN is a goddess ill-fit for a position of authority, especially over" -she spat the word- "MEN?" (you insolent pig.)

"It's just a legend, m'm," he stuttered.

The woman looked as though she would have preferred castrating him over talking to him. "Just a legend?" she almost hissed, only her strict sense of propriety keeping her from snarling. "Legends have power, young man. They have LIFE. No legend is JUST a legend. It's like saying a sword is JUST a sword, or a bomb is JUST a bomb. Can your feeble, testosterone-charged prune of brain comprehend what I'm saying, you insolent pig?"

The guide's mouth hung open. He closed it. "Legends are dangerous, m'm?" he squeaked, unconsciously holding his hands carefully folded in front of... himself.

"Exactly," she said calmly, as though rewarding a particularly slow student. "Most legends are. This one in particular. Now..." She smiled brightly. "Shall we go?"

"Er."

* * *

"Oh, dear," Captain Carrot said, his voice ringing with shocked disappointment. "They painted all over it."

"Hey, he's got a mustache," Sergeant Angua said, staring interestedly at the statue. "A blue one."

"Poor Mister Vimes," Carrot sighed.

"Er, yeah," Angua said. She cleared her throat. "You think we should... er... cover it up?"

Carrot looked up at the statue. It was a rather good likeness, actually, excluding the hastily painted vandalism scattered unevenly across the metal surface. The last Commander Stoneface of the Ankh-Morpork Night Watch, while he had been graced with reasonably attractive features, had been noticeably lacking any large blobs of red paint across his chest, unnaturally colored facial hair, or surprisingly small reproductive organs.

"I'm sure we can find a tarp or something," he said weakly, nervously glancing at Angua to see her reaction to the inopportune scribbling across the statue's pelvic region.

"You know," she said distractedly, a bemused look on her face, "he's quite a bit smaller than y-"

"Yes. A tarp. Just the thing," Carrot said, turning quickly and marching off with ears aflame. Angua grinned and followed close behind.

Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the Ankh-Morpork watch, the ever bashful, the ever optimistic, the ever mad sexy, proceeded quickly along the worn cobblestones, half-heartedly but unsuccessfully attempting to stay ahead of his smaller and lither partner, Sergeant Angua von Uberwald. The two had a much-whispered about Understanding: the sort of Understanding where each has a spare key to the other's home, toothbrushes are unpreventably shared, and both often come to work at the same time, sometimes accidentally wearing one another's clothing.

Yes. THAT kind of Understanding.

Angua fell gently into step beside her superior officer, trying not to grin too much as the man's neck burned red. "Where are we going to find a tarp?" she asked, wisely choosing to place the question of genital size on a back burner for the time being.

"I'm sure there's an upstanding tarp entrepreneur around here somewhere," Carrot said. "It's a pity Mr. Hack moved to Quirm after the rubber partridge incident... he sold these great big ones."

"Great big what?" Angua asked, still slightly engrossed in the dirtier aspects of her mind.

"Tarps," Carrot said, oblivious to the woman's blithe inference. "Always offered a discount, too, even though he had a wife and three children to feed."

"But you never took it."

"Truly the salt of the earth, that man."

Angua sighed. Carrot, lovely and caring as he was, never really seemed to listen to her. Well, okay, it might just be because she often talked about things he didn't understand (like penis envy), but it still got on her nerves every once in a while. "Look, we could just get a couple of street kids to wash it off for tuppence," she said. "It would be more convenient. Quicker, too. Betcha' Mister Vimes just wants it gone. That sort of thing has been popping up all over the city; 'Gurrlf Rool, Buoyf Drule'. I suppose it was only a matter of time before they got around to the statues."

"We can't destroy evidence!" Carrot said, shocked. "That's against the law!"

"Yes," Angua said, musing wistfully about a cup of tea and a romance novel after a short day on patrol, "and you know all about the law."

"As is every citizen's duty," Carrot said.

"Right. How about citizenette?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Let's go find a big... tarp."

* * *

It was February in Al-Khali, and everything was quiet. The merchants were still in bed, the women were inside, the camel-drivers and peddlers and D'regs and Royal Stewards and tourists and card-sharps and little men with carts selling dubious foodstuffs that usually populated (or, as the case may be, infested) the marketplace were nowhere to be seen in the crystalline morning light. The sun had only been up for around ten minutes, and the air was merely unpleasantly warm. There wasn't a sound to be heard, except the soft murmur of cica-

"I could murder a curry right about now."

There wasn't a SOUND to be HEARD, except the-

"Just half an hour, offendi."

I said, there WASN'T a SOUND to be HEARD, except-

"Ah, bugger. I thought it was closer than that."

Oh, screw it.

Two Al-Khali watchmen were the sole inhabitants of the pre-Market Day square. They walked with the tired but happy knowledge that the work day (or night, rather) was nearly over, soon they could go to bed, and that it was entirely in their rights to ignore absolutely anything short of a debilitating natural disaster until they were off duty and off the hook.

"So no coffee, then," grumbled the younger of the two. He pushed his turban up his forehead irritably.

"Not until we're done, offendi," replied the older one.

"You don't have to call me offendi, sarge."

"And you shouldn't call me sarge, offendi."

The younger one shut up, and contented himself with glaring sulkily around at his surroundings. His sullen expression was gradually replaced by one of confusion and mild surprise. "Hey sar- Sergeant," he said, his voice coming from a distance. "Where are we?"

"The Alcove of Shifa the Magnificent, offendi. You should know this."

"Yeah... only... where's the monument?"

They stopped. There wasn't a sound to be heard, except the soft murmur of cicadas in the trees.

"Oh, bugger," said the older Watchman.

"The Commander is going to go SPARE," the Lance-Constable whined, taking off his turban and twisting it in his hands. "SPARE."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	2. Ita Erat Quando Hic Adveni

Chapter 2 - Ita Erat Quando Hic Adveni

His Grace the Duke of Ankh Commander Sir Samuel Vimes glared menacingly up at the vandalised statue. He somehow doubted that Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes would stand for something like this.

"Sorry sir, hate to be annoying," Sergeant Angua piped up in a bright, brittle voice, "but I was just wondering, since so many things are genetically inherited patrilinearly, if you and Lady Sybil have ever had any difficul-"

"Somebody wash this off," Vimes grunted, turning on his heel and lighting a cigar in one lacklustre movement.

"Don't you think we should take some iconographs of it first, sir?" Carrot asked, his honest features twisted with concern.

Vimes shot a venomous glance at the vampiric Ankh-Morpork Times iconographer who was sneaking hopefully along the Palace wall, ruffling hurriedly around in his vest pockets for something. "Oh, just buy some off the reporter," he said, rolling his eyes and turning away to smoke.

Carrot took this as his cue. "Excuse me, Mr. Chriek!" he called brightly, walking toward the startled iconographer. "The Watch has a delightful proposition for you!"

Angua gritted her teeth and walked up to her commanding officer. "Er, sir... You know there's been a lot of graffiti in the city lately..."

"Yeah?" Vimes said. "So? There's always a lot of graffiti. This is Ankh-Morpork. You can't stand still for five minutes without getting an expletive painted on you."

"Yes, sir," she said. "But there's been more graffiti of a... specialized nature, I suppose I should say."

Vimes gave her a look. "What sort of specialized nature would this be, then?"

"Er... they seem to be leaning more toward the... er... feminine side of things," she said. "I think it's possible that there's a specific group behind it."

"Yeah, maybe," Vimes said. "But then, when has a little bit of graffiti hurt anyone?" Angua glanced pointedly over her shoulder at the ravaged likeness of the Commander's predecessor. "All right, I understand. You can look into it if you want to, but I seriously doubt there's anything sinister going on here." Vimes chewed thoughtfully on his cigar and stared off into the distance for a moment. "Carrot! What are you doing to that vampire?"

* * *

"What happened?" the short Watchmen asked.

"The Commander went spare," the Lance-Constable said drearily. Beside him, the Sergeant winced. The Commander going spare was a sight to see, and not one either of them would forget for quite some time.

"What, banged on the desk and everything?"

"Yeah. And lay across it and..." the Lance-Constable trailed off for a moment.

"And what, Goriff?"

"... And GROANED, Shihab."

Shihab recoiled. "The Commander groaned! Is this TRUE, Dhul-Fiqaar?" he added, spinning around to look at the Sergeant.

Dhul-Fiqaar nodded. "And swore. And lit a cigar. And sent a clacks to the palace."

"Smoked two whole cigars while we were in there," Goriff added miserably. "Sure sign of anxiety, that."

There was silence for a moment. An anxious commander was all fine and good, but the Commander (the capital C slotted automatically into place) was different.

Shihab cleared his throat. "Do you think the Prince-"

"Mayhereignforever," they all said in unison.

"-will blame the Commander for the missing monument?" he asked, voicing their shared thought. "You know how they are."

"Yeah," said Goriff grimly. "The sparks fly."

"It's only the oath that keeps the Commander here, really," the Sergeant observed, avoiding the question.

"What do you know, Dhul-Fiqaar?" Shihab grunted incredulously.

"More about the oath than you do, Constable Shihab," Dhul-Fiqaar said. "I'm slow, but I've been around a long time. The oath was made back before the Commander came, and even the Prince-"

"Mayhereignforever."

"-doesn't have the power to break it. Neither does the Commander, come to that. They'll both have to live out the length of the commission, unless the Commander betrays the state."

"Which won't happen," Shihab put in.

"The Commander IS from-" Goriff started.

"We don't talk about that," Shihab interrupted. "Anyway, so are you."

Goriff bristled, but was cut off mid-huff by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He stopped, gulped and looked around in a large set of very white teeth. The other two watchmen tried to look busy. "I'm sure you weren't just questioning the honor of our esteemed Commander, were you?" Captain Anwaar said, grinning, the words resonating through the room easily.

"Er," said Goriff. "No."

"Very good. Now, Sergeant Dhul-Fiqaar?" The big man scanned the room. "The Commander needs to speak with you."

Goriff grinned. "Good luck, sarge."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	3. Estne Volumen In Toga?

Chapter 3 - Estne Volumen In Toga, An Solum Tibi Libet Me Videre?

Dhul-Fiqaar cleared his throat nervously. He wasn't a brave man. He wasn't a coward, either, which is more than can be said for most. But he was at least half sane, and that bit of him was very, very frightened.

The Commander's office was dry and tidy, well-lit by several new gas lamps set into the stone walls. The desk was special from Ankh-Morpork, and there were a few bits of paperwork scattered across the top and tipping onto the floor. But mostly there was just the Commander.

"Er," said Dhul-Fiqaar.

"Sergeant Dhul-Fiqaar," Carlin sighed, "you look as though you're about to piss yourself. Please sit down. Carefully. The Prince sits there too, you know, I'd rather it was dry the next time he comes in to glower and patronize me."

The sergeant sat nervously, clutching his turban to his knees. As with all sergeants, he felt inherently uncomfortable around officers. Carlin's numerous... oddities didn't help. He made a face as the harsh cigar smoke wafted across his face.

Oddities. Yes. That was it. Like the recently acquired cigar habit. And the Ankh-Morpork accent. Dubious use of the word 'piss'. Irreverence toward the royal family.

The G word paraded about, a grinning traitor, in his mind's eye.

Carlin sat back in the slightly broken chair and gave Dhul-Fiqaar a studied look before nabbing a bit of paper, seemingly at random, from the mildly cluttered desk.

Silence. After a minute the sergeant coughed, tired of attempting to restrain himself from biting his turban.

"Yes. Right," Carlin said, seeming to remember what was going on. "As you probably know, I sent Kareem out to check up on the scene of the crime, see how the boys are getting on, pass out sandwiches, hot tea, you know. General den mother stuff. Should've had him wear an apron, in retrospect." Dhul-Fiqaar goggled. He was a literal-minded sort of man, and his brain twisted itself around trying to imagine Kareem, the loping snake-eyed bastard, toddling about passing round sandwiches and hot tea like a common biddy. His imagination went on strike before he could envision the apron. "Don't eyeball me, Sergeant," Carlin said after a minute, grinning a little bit. "I know what I'm doing. I'm a bit tetchy, but I haven't lost it altogether."

"Tetchy," said Dhul-Fiqaar.

"Now, look, he's brought some... interesting... things to my attention," Carlin continued, ignoring Dhul-Fiqaar's expression of confusion and sheepish helplessness in front of the wave of chatteringly frightening good will that was the Commander. "Footprints. Dropped change. Bits of rubbish swept around in the corners. Too bad the bloody alcove isn't enclosed or we could've taken fingerprints. Something helpful like that. Bugger all... I wish we had a werewolf."

"Werewolf," said Dhul-Fiqaar. The stress had finally gotten to Carlin. That was it. Gone funny in the head.

"Yeah, you know, run about Uberwald in the dead of night, castle, lightning, full moon, arooo, hair and teeth, much trouble in the village, hero with a silver-tipped arrow in his crossbow, werewolf is dead, hurrah, let's all eat drink and be merry. Yes?"

The Sergeant squished up in his chair and gave the Commander a very strange look.

Carlin coughed. "No, then. Right. Anyway. They're fabulously helpful when you need things sniffed out is my point. Anyway... look at this." The Commander tipped out the contents of a small envelope on the desk. There were some coins, a half-burnt matchstick, a folded handkerchief, a tattered religious pamphlet, bits of dust, a pair of sunglasses. Things you would find in a semi-popular tourist attraction. "See a pattern?"

Dhul-Fiqaar stared at the random assortment of junk for a minute, sweat rolling down his face. He was beginning to seriously fear for Carlin's sanity. "Er... no."

"Three coins," the Commander said, moving them aside. "All from Ankh-Morpork. A matchstick. Ordinary enough, but look at the wood... it's from Lancre. How many matchstick makers around here import wood all the way from Lancre? Not even very good quality. Right, anyway; a handkerchief. Embroidered with the initials NC and, handily enough, also an address if found. A religious pamphlet." The Commander paused. "Irrelevant. Don't know how that got in there. I'll have to have a word with Kareem. Continuing: a pair of sunglasses. Quite noticeably from number 3 stall on the Street of Cunning Artificers in Ankh-Morpork. What does that tell us?"

"Er... the criminal... is... from... Ankh-Morpork?" Dhul-Fiqaar queried.

"Actually, no," Carlin said, drawing something out of a pocket. "All it tells us is that the alcove isn't swept very often. THIS is what tells us that they are from Ankh-Morpork." The sheaf of papers fell heavily onto the top of the desk, scattering the lighter items spread lackadaisically about the place and churning up the dust in the air with a soft 'whump'. "Sweeping rotas. Signed testimony from the night janitors, detailing that each of them was on duty at the time scheduled. Guard schedules and reports. And this-" Carlin threw down one last piece of cardboard triumphantly "- is a round-trip ticket from the Ankh-Morpork port. The date for departure is yesterday, the date for return is today. The ship is the 'Dubious', captained by a Mr. J Lance, which left on time, with all of its passengers on board, exactly at 7:30am this morning. According to the ticket lady, however, there was some difficulty with one of the passengers having lost their return ticket and having to buy another one. Fortunately the companion of the passenger in question, no doubt in a hurry to claim their cabin, resolved it by simply buying another ticket, and the remainder of the departure went off without a hitch."

Dhul-Fiqaar stared at the papers. He could feel his brain twitching. "Er..."

"The ticket was dropped in the alcove between 5:47am, when the night janitor finished cleaning the alcove and monument for the upcoming business day, and 6:02am, when you and Lance Constable Goriff happened along, Sergeant," Carlin said. "As were the handkerchief, sunglasses, and matchstick."

The sergeant would be the first to admit to his own dullness, but sometimes things stuck. "What about the religious pamphlet?" he muttered.

Carlin stared at it. "Haven't a clue. Remind me to have a word with Kareem. But first... I need you to send a clacks for me."

"Where?"

"Pseudopolis Yard, of course. We're going on Hot Pursuit."

* * *

"You're WHAT?" Vimes yelled. He took a deep breath and tried again. "You're doing what, sir?"

"Allowing four members of the Al Khali watch to enter the city in Hot Pursuit," Vetinari replied, going through the everpresent stack of papers on his desk. "Apparently they have overwhelming evidence that the criminals they are pursuing have fled to Ankh-Morpork. I have chosen to allow them to do so, as an expression of goodwill."

"Goodwill!" Vimes squeaked. "Pardon my rudeness, sir, but-"

"Consider all rudeness pardoned. Nevertheless, they're coming. Please give them as much assistance as they require. I believe that is all, Vimes."

Vimes made a squeaking noise in the back of his throat. "So, what, 71-hour Ahmed? We get to house some D'regs at Pseudopolis Yard? Here's hoping the men don't mind finding ears in their soup, because that's just what might happen! Er... sir."

Vetinari turned over a piece of paper and studied it for a moment. "The squad is headed by Commander Teren Carlin, Commander Vimes," he said smoothly, reading off the page. "Born, raised, and trained in Ankh-Morpork. One of your Sammies, you'll be interested to learn. The three watchmen are unspecified, but somehow I doubt that the esteemed Mister Ahmed will be counted among them. I hear that Carlin and our impatient friend operate under a large and enduring umbrella of mutual dislike, and it would be highly unlikely for him to appear in Ankh-Morpork under Carlin's command."

Vimes boggled. "A Sammy? Commanding the Al Khali watch?"

Vetinari glanced up at him. "Indeed, Commander. Not such an unbelievable prospect, I should think. You do personally oversee much of their training, and who better to train future leaders but our best - and first - commander for centuries?"

"Sir," Vimes sighed, trying not to glower too much. "I still wish you had informed me of this sooner, sir."

Vetinari gave him a passive look. "I'm sure you do, Commander. I'm sure you do. Now, I'm sure you have much better things to see to. Don't let me detain you."

Vimes looked agonized for a moment, and then regained his composure. "Sir," he mumbled stiffly, and stalked out of the office.

In the changing light, Vetinari allowed himself a smile as he bent back over the paperwork. There was much to do... and not much time in which to do it.

* * *

Constable Visit stood distractedly in front of the watch house, humming to himself. He knew he shouldn't, but the fire and brimstone and sheer self-righteous energy of the old hymns got stuck in his head and hammered to be let out. "At the sign of tri-umph the un-right-eous, yea, doth flee/on then, Omnian soldiers, on to vic-tor-y! Hell's foun-da-tions quiver at the-"

"Visit! Visit? You're Visit, aren't you? Old Washpot?"

"Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets," he said automatically, and then turned. "Er," he said.

"I have no explanatory pamphlets," Captain Anwaar loomed, grinning at Visit with teeth that seemed entirely too white and much, much too big. "Will this be a problem?"

"If not, I'm sure you can supply one if called upon to do so, Anwaar," came a weary voice from behind the gigantic man. "Stand down, please." Anwaar moved to the side reluctantly, still smiling distressingly at the Omnian. Visit made a little sound like a mouse being stepped on.

"Right then," said the voice again. This time it was coming from a face, which was only slightly more reassuring. The face itself wasn't that alarming, but the armor, weaponry, and two large, dark watchmen surrounding it were. "We're the squad from Al Khali, in Ankh-Morpork on Hot Pursuit. I'm Commander Carlin. May I please speak to Commander Vimes? I'm almost positive he's here. He must be. It's past time for dinner."

"Uh," said Visit. He was momentarily at a loss, and scrambled to find some familiar ground. "Would you be interested in some pamphlets? They're quite... er... that is..."

Carlin gave him an odd look. "Just point me to Captain Carrot, there's a good chap. I don't want to bother you unduly. Hate to make a nuisance of myself, et cetera."

"Er... in the watch house," Visit said, thrusting his thumb toward the door. "Probably congregating with the unrighteous," he added darkly. "I pray he helps them see the light."

"We'll go check up on how that light thing is doing then, Constable. Anwaar, Kareem, Dhul-Fiqaar... come with me. I might be able to get you some cocoa or something while I have a little chat with the Commander."

The skinny, gold-skinned watchman behind Carlin perked up as they walked in the door. "Cocoa?" he said. "You never said there'd be COCOA. This just gets better and better."

"Shut up, Kareem."

Kareem grinned and loped after them. "You know me, Commander. Always up for a little chocolate."

"Kareem?"

"Hmm?"

"Seriously."

"Right."

"And if you keep it up you're going to end up getting slapped anyway. Or worse." Carlin grinned back at Kareem. "Welcome to Ankh-Morpork, Pearl of Cities."

"But pearls form by-"

"Exactly. You're getting it!"

* * *

Shave and a haircut, no legs.

Vimes looked up at the sound of the one resoundingly familiar Morkporkian knock. "What?" he said, and the door opened.

"Good afternoon, Commander Vimes," Carlin said, descending upon the room. "Carrot said you weren't that busy so to just go right on up. He's a good chap, innee? Anyway, sorry to dash your day to pieces, but I'm Commander Teren Carlin of the Al Khali Watch. Ye gods, I've had to say that too many times today. You'd be surprised how many people have gone and had a heart attack after seeing a white face under the turban when they stopped me to have a little good-natured mugging. Anwaar was terribly confused about the whole thing, I'm afraid, but luckily we got them to the doctor in time. I'm babbling again, terribly sorry. Where were we?"

"Al Khali Watch?" Vimes queried after a second, oggling the person in front of him.

"Right!" Carlin gave a big grin. "As you may well know, we're over here on Hot Pursuit. Woo nelly. Never thought we'd be doing this, eh? At any rate, it's absolutely terrific seeing you again, Mister Vimes."

The chatter died, leaving a slimy trail of silence through the room.

Vimes blinked. "Sergeant Carlin?" he said, recollection waving a weak flag of warning.

Carlin saluted, and grinned again. "Commander Carlin now, Mister Vimes. And thus fully entitled to avoid the responsibility of calling you 'sir', thank goodness. Never got the hang of it. Our mum said I was just born to lead, but then she was always a bit off her rocker. I think I was just born to ignore authority, jolly lot of good that gets me in Klatch."

Vimes gave Carlin a look. "They actually hired you? I thought that Prince Khufurah had a... thing... about your sort of people."

Carlin sighed. "My sort of people, Mister Vimes?"

Vimes shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't really at home with this sort of thing. "Women, I mean."

"Well, yes," Carlin said, and paused for a moment. "Our mum had some things to say about that, too."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	4. Cepe Indicum

Chapter 4 - Cepe Indicum

Vimes stood, silently and carefully. This was going to be a little tricky. "Look," he said, but didn't get to finish.

"I know you probably don't want me here," Carlin said quietly, the impish look all but completely evicted from her expression. "I was never under the impression that you readily welcomed outside forces into the city. It's your city, I know that. But I have to catch these guys."

Vimes gave her a long hard look and shifted his cigar over to the other corner of his mouth. "Just what did they do, anyway?"

She looked away, laughed, and shrugged. "Just stole a bronze statue. The damn thing's barely a foot high, and probably's got a wooden center. You wouldn't get it. It's a Klatchian thing. There are wailing multitudes back home, all absolutely convinced that if they die they'll be condemned to the fiery pits of hell unless the statue is returned." She glanced at Vimes from across his desk. "They're very devoted over there. I think it's all the sand. Really puts fear of the gods into you."

"Hmm," said Vimes. He'd only met a few native Klatchians, and none of them had seemed particularly pious. He gave Carlin a taste of his famous hairy eyeball.

"Er, are you all right?" she asked, looking a little distressed. "Your eyeball got all weird. I could get Kareem to whip something up for you, fix it right up good as new. He's a wizard, that man."

"A wizard? You have a wizard on your roster?"

She jumped. "Oh. No! That is, not a real, actual, in-the-flesh, six-meal-a-day-wallbanger wizard, but he's good at ointments." She smiled. "That's a no, then?"

"Er, yes. My eye's fine. Thank you." Vimes tapped his desk absent-mindedly for a moment, staring at the girl in front of him, thinking intently. "I'm afraid I'll have to have you check all your weapons here at the station, Commander. Sammy or not, you're officers of the Klatchian watch."

"And I'm afraid we can't do that, Commander," Carlin answered curtly, surprising Vimes with her sudden change of personality. "My officers are here on hot pursuit. We can't very well carry out an investigation in the great city of Ankh-Morpork without the invaluable assistance of a few well-placed head-choppers, you know that. Besides," she added, falling back into her devilish prankster persona, "you wouldn't want to be the one standing around waiting for Captain Anwaar to disarm himself. That man can hide things twice his size in the sole of one sandal, although finding an object that huge has proved a difficult task for him since around the age of five."

Vimes glowered. "I've got problems of my own to deal with over here," he grumbled. "Don't expect me to be your nanny."

Carlin laughed lightly. "Wouldn't think of it! A recommendation regarding temporary housing would help, of course... been out of the city for a few years now, and things always seem to switch around when you're not looking, don't they? Aside from that we should be all right... my boys are sharp enough, and I know the city all right, even after stalking the streets of Al-Khali for gods know how long." She gave him an amused look. "I really do apologize for having to burst in you like this, Mister Vimes. Believe me, it's not my cup of tea either, although I must admit that it's nice to be back home. The air is so clean in Klatch that it's sickening. It's good to breathe something with substance again."

"Sticks to your lungs," Vimes said. "Puts hair on your chest."

"Good thing I brought a razor, then."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Carlin coughed and rubbed a smudge off of her helmet with a careworn sleeve.

Vimes took the opportunity to really look at the girl. He could barely remember her as an officer in training, although the attitude did stick in his mind. Her breastplate shone halfheartedly, advertising an impatient polishing, and her tunic was ill-fitting and stained. Her helmet looked new, with a few dings around the edges, and her sandals were scuffed and thin-soled. Her skin was tan and a little leathered from Klatch's infamous sun and sand combination.

All in all, he had to admit to himself that he grudgingly approved. She wasn't more interested in her appearance than in doing her job ('cares more about being seen than seeing,' Angua had said disapprovingly about a sparkly Watch hopeful). She traded off being cheeky and respectful as she saw fit. And she was nervous... really, truly nervous. Trying to give the right impression. Trying to do the right thing. Trying, in essence, not to fuck up.

"Tell you what," he said roughly, gesturing with his cigar. "You and your men can stay at one of our watch houses for a while, as long as you don't get underfoot, inspire any complaints, kill anybody, that sort of thing."

She blinked, and suddenly looked terribly relieved. "Thank you, sir," she said, and her expression melted into one of a harried, stressed watchman, suddenly told that he has tomorrow off. "That's really... a relief. Prince Khufurah didn't give us much by way of housing allowances." Her eyes flickered, and she smiled, a little grimly. "He doesn't like me very much. He didn't know I was a woman when he hired me, you know. What a mess that was. I wouldn't have a job if they weren't so serious about that sort of thing over there."

Well. He'd approve more if she didn't talk so much.

* * *

Sergeant Angua von Uberwald nodded sternly at two of the newest officers, and they scampered over to her desk, nearly swallowing their tongues with nervousness on the way. "All right," she said, staring at the files in her hands. "Constables Chung and Todd?"

"Yes!" they squeaked. Well... one of them did. The other one just glared a bit and nodded. Angua made a mental note to keep an eye out for this one.

"You've been assigned to one another as patrol partners. That means you go everywhere together, you got me? You go somewhere while on duty and you don't have your partner, you're in trouble. And not necessarily with us, either. It's a dangerous city out there."

The squeaky one gulped.

"This is your first patrol without a superior officer, I see," she said, scanning the files. "Well, be careful, and don't be afraid to use your truncheon if you need to."

Carlin stepped off of the last stair and smiled at Angua nervously, sneaking past her quietly in order not to distract the new recruits. She tripped in the door, but caught herself on the doorjam and tumbled out into the sunlight to speak with her subordinates.

Angua stared after her for a moment, shrugged, and turned back to look at the young women in front of her. "Keep your eyes open, your ears alert, and your head awake. And stay out of the Shades for the love of all that is good and holy. Mister Vimes doesn't want to write your next of kin 'we-regret-to-inform-you' letters. Now get out of here."

Nell Chung and Jane Todd saluted smartly and walked out of the same door as Carlin, bumping into each other in the doorway and giggling nervously at the sight of the enormous Klatchian watchmen in the yard.

Angua sat back in her seat, rubbed her hands across her face, and heaved a sigh.

Damn newbies.

* * *

To Be Continued 


	5. Cogito Ergo Doleo

A/N: So basically this chapter sucks. Haha. 6 will be better. 

Chapter 5 - Cogito, Ergo Doleo

Constable Nell Chung of the Ankh-Morpork city watch leaned against the wall in an alley just a ways off Gleam Street, carefully positioned so as to appear nonchalant and in control. Her partner, constable Jane Todd, leaned against a section of wall adjacent to that already claimed by Nell. There was nothing posed in Jane's apathetic stance, and she blinked slowly in the blinding afternoon light.

They didn't speak for quite some time. The sun set gently behind the buildings, and Jane absent-mindedly kicked the wall a few times with her heel.

"So do you think-" Nell began, breaking the silence.

"Don't be silly, Nell," Jane interrupted, pulling her helmet down over her eyes. "She'll be here."

Nell sighed, nervous. "I suppose," she murmured. "If you say so."

Jane gave Nell a stern glance from under her helmet. "Are you suggesting she isn't trustworthy?"

Nell jumped. "What? No! No, not at all! I just mean... maybe she thought she was supposed to meet us tomorrow, or..."

"She's got a brain in her head. She's not male, after all."

Nell smiled in a worried sort of way. "Yeah. You're right."

"Jane's a smart girl."

Nell spun, tripping over herself and tumbling to the ground on her way around. The girl who had spoken laughed a little, not unkindly, and helped her up. Nell flushed. "Sorry, Bella... you surprised me."

Jane rolled her eyes behind Nell, and Bella shot a disapproving glance at her before giving Nell a warm smile. "Sorry about that, dear," she said. "It's these shoes... I'm not used to them yet."

Jane pushed off from the wall impatiently. "Let's get this over with," she said, pushing past the other two women.

Bella sighed and glared over her shoulder at the taller girl, then looked back at Nell and shrugged. "I suppose she's right. You brought everything, right?"

Nell gave Bella a relieved smile. "Yes, I did."

Bella smiled back and patted Nell on the head. "Good girl. Run along after Jane, now."

* * *

Carlin proceeded quietly along Treacle Mine Road, gradually getting further and further away from the watch house she'd been sleeping in the last few days. Kareem slouched along a few steps behind her, pausing every once in a while to leer at anything female that moved. He had a habit of leering unconditionally at anything in a skirt, despite quite a few unfortunate scuffles in the past, mostly involving a) ugly women, b) women with husbands, c) men in skirts, and d) trolls wearing kilts.

That last one had been rather uniquely painful, actually.

Carlin ignored the man behind her as best she could. She'd been his commander for seven years and would trust him with her life, but his numerous testosterone-driven tendencies were something she preferred not to see.

She stopped at a corner and, groggily, thumped a cigar out of the packet she kept in her breeches pocket. She fumbled in her pockets for a moment further, then sighed and turned to her captain. "You wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?" she asked wearily.

Kareem pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and struck one under his thumbnail, holding it out for her. She was shorter than him by far, the top of her head just barely coming to his collar bone, so Carlin stood on her tiptoes to light her cigar and puffed it gently until the end glowed satisfactorily. She moved away and he shook the flame out, watching her smoke for a minute or two.

"Why did you start smoking?" he asked.

Carlin filled her cheeks with smoke, held it, and then puffed it out in one long burst. "Nerves," she said shortly, not looking at him. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Our favorite royalty getting to you again?"

"I'm not good enough at being a cop to be your commander."

Kareem was struck silent for a moment. "That... that's not true-"

"Yes it is. And I said I didn't really want to talk about it."

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes.

"So, what, are you going to quit?"

"No." She stubbed out the half-smoked cigar on the wall next to her, leaving a sooty black mark over the graffiti. "I'm just going to... to keep trying."

Kareem grinned at her. "Good. We'd miss you."

"You old sap. You know that's a lie. Most of the men don't like or respect me. And hey, even you hated me when I first came along."

"You were sort of replacing me."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. You've saved my ass enough times that it's worth it. And you're a better cop than I am."

"That's a blatant lie, and we both know it."

"Well... maybe. But you're a better leader. Anwaar and Dhul-Fiqaar were what was keeping the watch together before you came along."

Carlin shot Kareem a crooked grin. "Thanks. That really... means a lot."

Kareem grinned back and struck an arrogant little pose. "I'm a wonderful guy. What can I say?"

She laughed, and turned away to continue down the street. "Come on then, captain wonderful. We have to go solve an unsolvable case."

"So I guess that means no sex."

* * *

"Wait. Constable... please slow down." Angua rubbed the bridge of her nose and looked over her desk at Nell, pink with excitement and nerves.

"There's paint!" she squeaked. "All over the palace!"

"All right," said Angua, picking up her pencil. "And?"

"Er..." started Nell.

Jane leaned forward, her hooded eyes impatient. "She means more graffiti, sergeant," she said. Nell nodded emphatically.

"I see." Angua sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Great. Thank you. I'll be along in a moment. Cheery! Don't we have a damn iconographer arond here someplace?"

* * *

To Be Continued 


	6. Fac Ut Vivas

AN: Interestingly enough, it was in this chapter that I discovered just how easy and natural it would be to slip into Vimes/Vetinari slash. 

It scared the hell out of me.

Chapter 6 - Fac Ut Vivas

Vetinari went out onto the balcony, quietly drinking the Ankh-Morpork air. It had been a quiet few weeks... strange, in this City That Never Sleeps, rare to be sure, but still possible.

The calm before the storm, he mused idly to himself, and chuckled. He turned back toward the door, leaning slightly on his cane, and never saw the crossbow bolt coming.

* * *

News of the assassination spread like the water from a dropped bucket. Drumknott had unintentionally started the ball rolling when, after walking cautiously into the Patrician's study and discovering Vetinari's prone form flat on the area of the floor just inside the door to the balcony, he shouted wildly for assistance, and was subsequently heard by all manner of unfortunately gossip-prone individuals. The watch, of course, was summoned immediately.

Commander Vimes sped to the palace, Captain Carrot and Corporal Littlebottom close behind. There was a definite sense of deja vu here... this was, what, the third assassination attempt? Second by crossbow bolt, no less. No, wait, the first had been bow and arrow, not crossbow... but Vimes never put much importance in the difference between the two, after all. They were all just pointy flying things.

Vimes swept into the corridor outside of Vetinari's chambers and Drumknott, having been sitting on a chair set outside the door, hurriedly got to his feet, nervous and worried. "So, what's the progress report?" Vimes asked grimly, striding to the door but pausing to look at Drumknott before entering.

"He's still alive," Drumknott said, sweat beading on his forehead. "Just not... very much."

Vimes glared at the door in front of him for a moment, and then opened it gently, quietly stepping inside the darkened room.

The room looked empty, almost. The lights were out and the window was slightly open, letting a bit of air in to sweep ineffectually around the drapes and scuff up the dust. There was evidence of some doctoring, as well as a doctor having been quickly run out, apparently with some force. A roll of linen bandages trailed off of the bed and had unrolled over a rather long length of floor.

The Patrician, breathing so softly that Vimes could barely perceive either sound or motion, lay in the gloomy bed, eyes closed. His tunic had been cut off, the grey remains draped over the back of a chair that had been pulled to the bedside. The entire right side of his chest, as well as his neck and shoulder, had been sturdily wrapped with the same thick linen bandages that lay on the floor, but a dark stain had already seeped through the cloth. Without his tunic he looked pale and skeletal, and strangely vulnerable in the dim light.

Vimes snorted a huff of aggravated air through his nose, and walked toward the chair, picking up the remains of Vetinari's tunic. The dark fabric didn't show much by way of blood in the bad light, but his hand came away dark and wet. He hadn't realized the Patrician had had it in him... he seemed too bony for so much blood.

Wiping his hand clean on his breaches, he walked back to let in Carrot and Littlebottom, nodding roughly at the Patrician's bed. "Corporal," he said, "this isn't quite forensic yet, but I still need you to get as much evidence out of the tunic and crossbow as you possibly can. Carrot, run and get Dr. Lawn. Quick as you can, understand?"

Carrot saluted and jogged off down the corridor. Drumknott glanced after the young man and then gave Vimes a worried look. "Do you... er..."

"Do I what?" Vimes asked wearily.

"Do you think he'll be all right?"

"Dr. Lawn's offices are just a few streets over," Vimes said. "Carrot can take care of himself. He's a good strong lad."

"I meant the Patrician."

"Right. I was afraid of that." Vimes let out a slow breath of cigar smoke, and then glanced at the secretary's tortured face. "Hard to say," he said gently. "But he's a tricky bugger. He's gotten out of tight situations before. He can pull it off again."

"There was... a lot of blood."

Vimes looked into the obscure depths of the room, only the shining metal of Littlebottom's helmet, bobbing around in the murk, visible from the door. "Yeah." He stubbed out his cigar absent-mindedly into the open palm of a suit of armor. Drumknott gave him a shocked and affronted look, but the commander didn't seem to see it. "I think he'll be all right. But who on the disc would assassinate the Patrician? Who, damn it, has a motive?"

* * *

There are other dark rooms in Ankh-Morpork, with less blood and fewer dying men. There are several that are full of sleeping people, for example. There are rooms filled with the clients of seamstresses and, ah, the seamstress themselves as well (although with significantly less clothing than is to be expected out on the street). And there are rooms... rooms with candles, high-backed chairs, and warped minds.

Glasses, glinting in the almost-light. "And you have... completed what you set out to do?"

"Yes. The distraction at the palace was a great help to our cause. I admire and worship your presence of mind for thinking of such a simply brilliant plan of action."

A laugh. Cheerful, light, egotistical. "Thank you for your kind words, but don't forget - we are all equals here. All of our minds are capable of great things. We are... superior. Are we not?" A round of laughter. "But still... thank you for your appreciation and admiration. It brings me joy to know I can so greatly assist such a shining member of our cause."

"I am overwhelmed by your compliments."

"You deserve the flattery, my dear. Now then... with your success, we have ushered in a new era. Soon we will be the true and recognized superiors. We have long been an object, to be laughed at, used, conquered... all manner of vile things. But you... have opened the door. My friends... shall we step through?

The room rang with enthusiastic and unanimous agreement.

* * *

The next morning the news had spread to even the highest of the aristocrats, and they were scrabbling to get things in order just in case. For once the watch had no real leads: the crossbow bolt had been completely devoid of fingerprints or poison, and it was the most popular brand and type. There had been no witnesses, and the doorway to the balcony so wide, the view so unobstructed, and the position Vetinari had fallen into so strange that it was near impossible to ascertain where, exactly, the bolt had come from.

Things went on pretty much as usual: the city would have been in an uproar had a larger number of the constituents actually cared.

* * *

To Be Continued 


	7. Conlige Suspectos Semper Habitos

Chapter 7 - Conlige Suspectos Semper Habitos

Lady Edlyn Nils swept into the outer office of Vetinari's study, two young ladies skittering behind her. "Excuse me," she said, snapping her fingers and looking at Drumknott down her nose. "I was told to come to this desk?"

"Uh, what?" said Drumknott.

"This desk, you stupid man," she sniffed, adjusting her wire frame glasses delicately. "Didn't you get the memo?"

Drumknott scuffled around in the files stacked neatly on his desk. "Er... er, that is-"

"Oh, stuff it," she said quickly, tossing her head arrogantly. "I can't be bothered by a secretary who can't even keep his memos straight. Lady Edlyn Nils - no, don't get up-" Drumknott stared at her dumbly "-I am perfectly capable of carrying out my duties without your assistance. I'm here as the official press woman. You obviously didn't know about it, so stop saying 'er' like the complete idiot I'm sure you are and just give me the files or reports or whatever the watch gave you. I need to prepare a statement. For the public," she added, pointedly, her eyebrows arched dangerously.

"They didn't-"

"Aha! No files, hmm? No reports, hmm? Suspicious!" she trilled, and her entourage nodded emphatically. "Verrry suspicious! Well then. I'll just have to prepare my own statement without the assistance of the watch. The obvious answer is, of course, obvious."

"Er... is it?"

"Of course, you imbecile. If you can't think of it yourself you'll just have to wait along with the rest of the virulent, teeming masses until I'm done with the statement. Now then..." She started for the door, but Drumknott stood, partially blocking her path.

"I'm sorry, you can't go in there."

She shot Drumknott a venomous glare. "Yes, I do believe I can. And you stay right here until I send for you, do you understand? This is vital work, and I shan't have you bothering me with your inane questions and assumptions until it is completed finished. Now then... girls!" The young ladies behind her snapped to attention and, throwing amused glances at Drumknott, followed the Lady Edlyn into the Patrician's study.

Drumknott sat down heavily, paused, and began to search through his desk for the memo that he was sure he must have missed.

* * *

Vimes woke up the next morning next to his wife. He got up, took the baby for a little walk around the house, and then went to the kitchens to scrounge up some breakfast. Willikins was already there, of course, so Vimes got his coffee and burnt sausage a little sooner than he expected. A little while later Sybil came down from the bedroom and sat her place at the breakfast table. They chatted about the sort of thing spouses and parents chat about... drapes, carpeting, baby toys, development, what new thing Sam Jr had found to chew on. 

Willikins came in about halfway through breakfast with the morning edition of the Ankh-Morpork Times on a tray, and Vimes took it, flipping through it quickly, all but ignoring the headlines. They were always dull anyway... today was the usual fare. BOGGIS CLAIMS INNOCENCE IN PATERNITY SUIT. NINE OUT OF TEN DOGS PREFER LAMB CHOPS. VIMES ACCUSED OF THE ATTEMPT ON PATRICIAN'S LIFE. MRS PALM SUSPECTED-

Whoa.

Hold up there.

Vimes flipped hurriedly back through, stopping at the first page. The first article in the paper, as was to be expected, was about yesterday's assassination attempt.

"Dear," he said, his voice distant. "Have you ever heard of a woman named Lady Edlyn Nils?"

Sybil though for a moment, chewing her toast. "No, Sam," she said. "Why?"

"She says I tried to kill the Patrician."

* * *

Lady Nils sat, stately and collected, in Vetinari's chair. A ragtag group of Guild leaders huddled together in front of her, crowding around the formidable desk. She watched them carefully for a few moments, then suddenly smiled at them warmly. A few of them jumped. 

"My dear friends," she said, her voice bubbling thickly with murky compassion, "we find ourselves in an unfortunate situation. Who could know that the Patrician would be struck down so effectively now, in his prime?" She lowered her chin demurely and gave them each a knowing look. "And who indeed could have predicted that all clues pointed to none other than Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork watch, as I released in my press statement yesterday?"

There was a snickering in the back.

She looked mournful. "In this time of stress and difficulty, it is imperative that we do not let our grief anf compassion get the better of us. Speaking as Lord Vetinari's press officer and aide, I feel that Sir Samuel should be detained at once."

"What!" cried someone lost in the crowd. The Guild leaders parted to show Mrs Palm, looking shocked.

Lady Nils blinked once, but immediately turned on an expression of sisterly goodwill and honest repartee. "Detained, I said, yes, but merely for questioning." Again the knowing look. "At least... for the time being."

"That's ridiculous!" Mrs Palm fumed, looking a bit ridiculous herself under her enormous pink plumed hat. "What evidence is there?"

Lady Nils gave her a stern look. "I'm afraid that no evidence can be disclosed at this time," she said. "For your safety, of course. It is a dangerous world we live in, ladies and gentlemen."

"So are you proposed Sir Samuel be detained by his own men?" asked Lord Downey coolly, watching Lady Nils under hooded eyes. "I doubt that you would find them... cooperative."

There was a flash of irritation on Lady Nils' face, but it was so quick that many of them thought they must have imagined it. "Of course not," she said calmly. "I know what loyalties warped minds can command. I would not presume to ask those poor souls to detain the very man who lords over them. No, I will have him brought here by the Palace Guards... to stay in a comfortable guest room until questioning is completed."

"Well," said Mr Boggis, "I suppose if it's just for questioning..."

"Of course, of course!" cried Lady Nils expansively, smiling warmly at them all. "It is unfortunate that it has come to this, yes, but we must do with it what we can. Thank you for your support, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sure you are all very busy. I shan't keep you from your other appointments any longer."

The Guild leaders shuffled out, murmuring to one another. They felt a little as if they'd just been sold something they didn't need and didn't really want, but they couldn't see exactly what.

The door closed behind the last of them and Lady Edlyn flopped back in the chair. "Damn fools," she muttered.

* * *

To Be Continued 


	8. Ubi Est Mea Anaticula Cumminosa?

Chapter 8 - Ubi Est Mea Anaticula Cumminosa?

Vimes sat in the bath tub, head low in the water so that he blew bubbles when he exhaled and he had to be careful not to drown when he inhaled. There was something unknown and knobbly behind his back, right where it rested on the wall of the tub, but Vimes's muscles were too relaxed in the scalding hot water for him to bother reaching back and fishing it out.

That damn Nils woman. What was the evidence that showed he was the culprit? She was just plain mad.

Well. He was rather rich.

And he did, technically, have a believable motive.

And he did have a rather wobbly alibi.

And Vetinari was a godsawful bastard.

Vimes let out out a snort of frustration, disturbing the surface of the water and bringing up a cloud of froth and steam. Just plain mad, she was. Mad. She didn't know a clue from a turnip, most likely. And official press woman? Where had that come from? Vetinari had never mentioned anything about it.

Not that Vetinari ever told Vimes important things like that, the godsawful bastard.

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Sam?" came Sybil's muffled voice. "Are you in there?"

Vimes brought his mouth up out of the water like some sort of monster from the deep. "Yes, dear," he said damply. "What is it?"

"Young Sam is going a bit bonkers, Sam," she said, with the optimistic under-exaggeration of mothers everywhere. Somewhere beyond the door, Vimes heard muffled screeching. "Do you know where his rubber ducky is?"

Vimes pondered the conundrum. Rubber ducky... rubber ducky... hmm...

"Shouldn't it be in the baby bath, dear?" he called back, gurgling a bit.

"No, Sam, he grew out of that last month. We've been using the bath tub since then."

The bath tub?

Vimes sat up, water pouring off of him. There was a labored, pathetic noise behind him, reminiscent of a cross between a squeak and a squelch. His back went _twang_.

Oh, _dear_.

"I think I know where it is, Sybil."

"Oh, good! Where?"

"In my kidney."

* * *

_Dear Mumm and Dade,_

_thinges arr goning stranjly in the Watch! The Particrian was resently shotte, and somme watchmen from, Al Khali came to Ankh-Morpork on hott pursute! Mister Vimes is, resently verry worried and, for just cauze I fere. There has been alot of, vandalisisism latly also. And women have been-_

There was a knock on the door. Carrot looked up. "Yes?"

There was a pause. "Are you decent?" came Angua's voice.

Carrot set down his pencil. "Yes," he said. "Come in."

Angua opened the door carefully and stepped inside, closing it behind her. "How are you doing?" she asked, a bit embarrassed.

"I'm doing all right," said Carrot. "Is something wrong?"

"No-o... not as such," Angua said. "But I've got an odd feeling about all these... _things_ happening lately."

"What sort of odd feeling?"

"I think they might be connected."

"What makes you say that?"

Angua sighed and sat down on the bed. "Call it women's intuition, I suppose. I just get the feeling that something isn't right here."

Carrot hesitated for a moment, thinking. "Well, it isn't right... the Patrician's been shot, and is nearly comatose."

"I mean besides that."

"Well, what do you mean then?"

Angua looked frustrated. "I don't know what I mean. It's just... this whole thing reeks of conspiracy. And when I say reeking, I know what I'm talking about."

Carrot smiled at her, and Angua's bitter mood softened. "I guess I've just been stressed lately," she said gently, looking at her hands.

"We all have been. It's all right."

"And all those damn new recruits... don't know an axe from a hamster, and that's a problem when somebody's just cut your legs off at the knee in the middle of a bar fight. Running around like headless chickens because someone's painted a few mild expletives on some wall somewhere. And it wasn't even that bad... just the same little girl snarkiness we've been finding everywhere lately. Grassroots feminism. It's crazy."

"Mister Vimes says that women are crazy and men are stupid."

Angua laughed, a little bitterly. "He's pretty much right."

There was silence for a second, and Carrot put his hand on Angua's shoulder.

She looked up at him and smiled a little, and they had the chance to be crazy and stupid together for a little while, in private where it was okay.

* * *

His life seemed to have turned into nothing but people knocking on his door, Vimes thought as he lathered up his chin and jaw. That and reports. At least people told him things these days. He tested the edge of the evil, shining razor on his thumb.

The sharpness was satisfactory, he decided, and, wincing, sucked the blood off of his fingers.

He couldn't get his mind off of the attempt on Vetinari's life. The man was practically comatose now, too... Dr Lawn hadn't been able to rustle up much by way of evidence of brain activity, and the Patricians pulse was weak, along with his breathing. The man had been shot before... what made this time any different? Why was he taking it so hard?

Maybe Vetinari was starting to lose his edge, Vimes thought as he carefully began to shave off the rough stubble on his left cheek. Maybe he'd been hurt by the last few attempts more than he let on. Maybe his body had just given up.

Vimes flicked a glob of foam and hair into the washbasin. "I doubt it," he muttered darkly, and brought the razor up to his face again.

"Doubt what, sir?" said Willikins from just outside the door.

Vimes jumped and nicked himself on the chin spinning to meet his imagined attacker. "Ye gods, man, don't do that!" he managed, setting the razor down very, very carefully and holding his fountaining chin.

"Do what, sir?"

"Sneak up on me like that!"

"Many apologies, sir," Willikins said woodenly, clicking his heels sharply together and snapping out a smug little servile bow. Vimes glowered. "If sir so pleases, there are visitors at the door. They require sir's immediate company. Shall I bring out your good boots, sir? It seems as though you may be needing them. If I may be so bold."

"I suppose you may," Vimes said, bemusedly searching about the countertop for a bit of tissue paper with which to daub at his cut. "But why the good boots?"

Willikins cleared his throat and looked suddenly nervous. "They're from the Palace Guard, sir," he said in a small voice. "I fear they may wish to detain you. Perhaps for quite some time."

Vimes stood stock-still in front of his washbasin, holding a bit of tissue to his chin.

So it had come to this, eh? A smile and a nod and if you'd just step along here with us, sir, we'd like to ask you a few questions to help us with our enquiries, eh? He'd always known the press was dangerous. They report and we decide, indeed... they report what they think and we decide whether we're going to believe them or, or... or if we're going to believe them. Gods dammit... the sheer stupidity of the public, he couldn't believe it.

"On whose authority?" he asked briskly, glaring at his butler.

"That's the problem, sir," Willikins said. "They have orders, sir. From the Lady Nils. Sealed with the Patrician's seal. It's official, sir."

Vimes turned back toward toward his shaving mirror and brought the razor back up. "Then they can wait, officially," he said in a cold voice. "And fetch Sybil, will you? I think she'll want to be here for this."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	9. Bovis Stercus

**Chapter 9 - Bovis Stercus**

Carlin rolled over and buried her face in her pillow, groaning. She had stayed up far too late the night before with a mound of paperwork and the Al Khali Watch book of clacks ciphers, eventually going to bed after she had accidentally fallen asleep on top of a report.

As it was, she had the Klatchian word for "godsawful bastard" printed, backwards, on her forehead.

She blinked slowly against the rough linen of the pillowcase, trying to figure out, in her half-awake stupor, what had woken her up in the first place. It was fairly quiet in the room they'd given her... an old office no one had been using. Apparently the Patrician had, when approving her request for Hot Pursuit, made sure that she wouldn't have to room with the men. Whether it was because she was an officer or a woman she didn't know, but she appreciated the gesture. It meant she could prance around in her underwear when she felt like it, and underwear prancing was an important part of being herself.

There was an insistent knocking at the door. Oh, right...

"gnnh," she mumbled, a little less eloquent than she had originally intended.

"Commander?" Kareem called through the door.

"The commander is dead," she called back, sticking her head under her pillow. "Come back after the appropriate rituals have been completed, last rites read, etc."

"I've got some coffee for you."

Carlin sat up quickly, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. "Oh gods, give it to me now!"

Kareem opened the door and stepped in carefully, balancing a tray on his free hand. "Klatchian coffee, too," he said. "Goriff's dad down at Mundane Meals did some up for us." He grinned and handed her the mug. "They're nothing like each other, interestingly enough. His dad's a lot less pigheaded."

Carlin huddled over the coffee cup, sticking her face into the rising steam. "Coooffeeeee," she keened, and sucked it down hurriedly.

Kareem winced. The Commander couldn't hold her drink, but she drank coffee like a champion. Klatchian coffee barely phased her, although she was usually more talkative after drinking a few cups. Of course, with the Commander... well, she was always talkative, coffee or no. "Er, Commander..."

Carlin's only response was blowing bubbles into the scalding liquid.

"You slept in your chainmail again. That can't be healthy."

Carlin drained the mug, tipping her head back to catch the last few drops, and thumped the mug down on the mattress. "Yeah, well," she said, rubbing her eyes. "It's a bugger to take off when you're pooped." She gave him a look. "Any news from the front? How's the Patrician holding up? And has Vimes decided to kick us out yet?"

"Er, maybe you should get out of bed, Commander-"

"What, and let you see me in my knickers? I'm a free woman, captain, but I'm not loose."

"With all due respect, Commander, you did sleep in your uniform."

"Well, yes. But still. Report. And send for more coffee. My brain is still feeling lumpy."

Kareem heaved a sigh. The Commander took some getting used to, and he still hadn't gotten accustomed to her over the five years she'd been the Commander. It was hard enough taking orders from a woman, but taking orders from a woman who swore prolifically, smoked cigars, spoke ill of the monarchy, drank Klatchian coffee as though it were water, and said things like "my brain is still feeling lumpy" was a camel of a different color.

"The Patrician is just as he was when you asked last," he said. "Apparently they're finding it difficult to discern whether or not he's really alive. You know, in his brain. And, well, Commander Vimes..."

Carlin gave him a look. "What about him?"

"Let's just say he's not really in any position to be kicking us out anytime soon."

* * *

Hmm. That had gone well.

Vimes sat uncomfortably in the wooden chair, a bemused expression on his face. There was an ugly bruise over his right eye, but he didn't seem to notice it.

The guards who had come to his door hadn't reckoned on meeting Sybil. That had been interesting. She'd used her aristocratic voice and everything. The poor men had marched out of the house before remembering themselves and knocking again in a rather embarrassed way. Vimes was impressed.

Impressed and, more importantly, tied up. Well, tied down, really. He had gone with the guards easily enough, but had immediately been dragged into a dark room and tied to a chair. Someone had hit him, too, which hadn't really been on the menu earlier in the evening.

He was, as Dr Lawn had a tendency to put it, "experiencing some discomfort."

Now... what to do? He taught his Sammies to assess the situation first thing, but he figured he'd already done that. Next on the list was compiling a list of useful information and possible tools.

Information: it was bloody dark.

Tools: some rope, which was unfortunately bound rather tightly around most of his body.

Right, then. Next...

The door opened, and he blinked in the sudden light. Damn, damn! They knew the old Blinding The Prisoners trick... standing in the light so the prisoner couldn't see you. If he couldn't see you, he wouldn't know who you were. If he didn't know who you were, he didn't know whether or not you were likely to hurt him. If he didn't know whether or not you were likely to kill him, he'd get scared and pliable. Well, ha, Vimes knew that trick.

Trouble was he was feeling himself getting a little scared.

"Commander Vimes," said the figure in the doorway. A woman's voice, commanding and pompous. "I hope you know why you have been brought here."

Fear turned to anger, and Vimes growled. "Bloody-mindedness," he said.

The woman paused, then moved into the room. "Yes," she said, "but not on our part by any means. We are much too rational to fall into such traps of the mind."

"'We'? Who's this 'we'? And why the hell am I tied up?"

The woman sighed and sat down in a comfortable chair facing Vimes. "I'll be asking the questions here, Commander," she said in a weary voice. "I'm sure a man of your... _caliber_ can understand the importance of that rule."

Vimes grunted.

"I see," she said after a moment, and wrote something down on a piece of paper. "That's very interesting. Now then... where were you at the time of the assassination?"

"Attempted assassination," Vimes said.

The woman smiled humorlessly. "That is yet to be determined, Commander. Now please answer the question."

"I was inspecting the training facilities, all right? It's supposed to be done once a month."

"Did anyone see you there?"

"Fred Colon saw me, as well as any number of new recruits."

"Hmm." She stared at him for a few moments, then wrote something down. "Now then, Commander... I've come to understand that you actually left the training facilities for a span of about-" she flipped the paper over and glanced at the leaf underneath it "-ten minutes, at roughly the same time as what we shall now call the crime in the interests of simplicity. Do you have anything to say about this?"

Oh, gods. That's right.

"I went outside for a smoke," he said.

Her eyebrows went up. "For ten minutes?"

Vimes glowered. "Everyone knows you can't rush a good cigar."

"And you have witnesses?"

Damn. Damn! Of course there hadn't been any witnesses... he'd wanted privacy. What a day that had been... those damn Al Khali watchmen tearing about the place making things all kinds of difficult, recruits who didn't seem to know one end of a sword from the other, Fred acting especially sergeant-y for reasons unfathomable... all that on top of the usual bluster, and Angua having a bad hair to round it all out.

"... no," he finally said. "I wanted privacy. I went behind the shed by-"

"Interestingly enough, there are certain individuals who have sworn that they saw you outside the palace at that time. A few of your own officers, in fact. Apparently they saluted and you gave them a, quote, 'shifty, uncertain look' and darted off. Do you have anything to declare? Commander Vimes?"

His head was swimming in a purple world full of strange things with knobbly bits. His own officers? Wait, wait... assassins had tried using look-alikes before, hadn't they? Maybe somewhere out there was a banker who looked just like him. Maybe they paid somebody off to lurk around in the general area of the palace looking shifty. Maybe... maybe... maybe he needed to be more stringent with his anti-hallucinogen policies.

That was it. His officers were dabbling in illegal substances! They were obviously experiencing guilt-induced hallucinations created by their own battered brain cells! No other explanation would do!

The purple knobbly things quavered uncertainly, but stopped when Vimes gave them a wild-eyed, furious look.

"Commander Vimes?"

"They must have been on drugs," he said.

Pause. "Ah," she said, and wrote something down. "Thank you, Commander. I think we're all done here. Thank you for your... cooperation." She stood and started to leave the room. Vimes wiggled desperately against the ropes.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Aren't you going to untie me?"

She stopped in the doorway and turned to look at him over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Commander Vimes," she said, her profile outlined against the light. "You're to be detained until a proper trial can be organized." She gave him a meaningful look. "It is _so_ hard to put one together with no Patrician, after all."

"And what do you suggest I do until then, eh?"

"My suggestion, Commander Vimes?" She smiled. "Learn how to sleep sitting up."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	10. Varium Et Semper Mutabile Femina

I'll be leaving for London in the morning, and won't be back for at least a week. Just so y'all know.

* * *

Chapter 10 - Varium Et Semper Mutabile Femina

His Royal Highness Seriph Khufurah of all Klatch and Subsequent Colonies  
c/o: The Royal Court of Al-Khali Klatch

Sub: URGENT.

Attempt made on Vetinari's life STOP Vimes in suspicion and detained STOP suspect monument thieves are connected STOP the weather continues fair STOP send backup STOP.

Respectfully,  
Teren Carlin   
Commander   
Al Khali Watch

* * *

Captain Carrot stood next to the desk in Vimes's office, whistling between his teeth absent-mindedly as he sifted through reports and complaints and urgent memos whose time had passed. He was technically in charge whenever Vimes was absent, but he never felt comfortable sitting in Vimes's chair, behind Vimes's desk, sorting through Vimes's paperwork. 

It had been two days since the detainment of Commander Vimes, and the watch house operated under a quiet, worried hush, the officers watching Captain Carrot to see what he would do. Smart most of them weren't, but even in those most lacking in brain functions a slight sense of self-preservation remains intact and kicking.

The same went for the majority of the Guilds and freelance criminals... while the cat was away, the Ankh-Morpork mice apparently hid, and waited to see what would happen. There was an almost-quiet to the city, if you ignored the calls of the optimistic mysterious-foodstuff entrepreneurs and the unintelligible garbling of the rather more interesting sort of beggar. (1) Indeed, the Big Wahooni seemed to be in a state of calm panic as intelligence quietly exited out the back way and primitive mob instinct took over. Fight or flight, but there was nothing to fight with or fly from, and the citizens of the great, troubled city of Ankh-Morpork were caught between a rock and a rectangular building thing.

Captain Carrot stood next the desk in Vimes's office, whistling between his teeth absent-mindedly, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

There was a tentative knock at the door. Carrot looked up. "Come in."

Carlin stuck her head nervously around the door. "Ah, hullo," she said, smiling in a worried sort of way, "Fred said you'd probably be up here. How are things going, what with... everything?"

"Only as well as can be expected," Carrot said, smiling at her.

Carlin took off her dusty turban and banged at it a few times to get the dirt off, but only succeeded in spreading it around the room. "Didn't expect -_hackhack_- to have such a flub going -_cough_- on when I came back," she said, waving a hand in the air. "It's a bit nuts, ennit? I mean, really... it's the middle of a very, very important case. What sense is there in detaining the Commander of the Watch?"

"Quite a bit, if you're under the impression that he was the one behind the assassination," said Carrot, looking down at some paperwork. "Hmm... looks like Nobby has been doing the numbers for the wage chitty again. I'll have to talk to him about that."

Carlin paused and gave Carrot a look. She'd always remembered him as a blaringly good-natured demi-god of a man, who knew the name of every merchant and the language of most of the immigrants and could break up a roaring bar fight just by banging a few heads together and calling them all jolly good chaps. But every once in a while he was somehow... sneaky. Sneakier than the rest of them, like he knew exactly what was going on and was only doing it their way for the sake of seeing the scenery. People like him bent the world around themselves, and she was worried about how this was going to go, in the end.

"Well... look, I know all we've been doing really is running about being a bother, but if you need any help we're here," she said. "I'm still an Ankh-Morpork girl. I hate to see the old homestead go through such hard times."

"Yes, where are your men, anyway?"

"My men? Oh... Kareem's probably paying Mrs Palm a friendly visit, Dhul-Fiqaar's interrogating some suspicious sausages in a pub somewhere, and, knowing Anwaar, a few thieves guild novices are losing bowel control at this very moment. Why?"

The door burst open, interrupting Carrot before he even began to speak. Nobby stumbled into the room, looking harried and clutching at his helmet. He stood to attention when he saw the two officers, and saluted a salute as crisp as an elderly cabbage. "Captain Carrot, sir! There's men downstairs, sir! Say they're from the Palace, sir! Doesn't look good, sir!"

Carrot set the paperwork down on the desk. "Did they say what they wanted, Nobby?"

"Nossir!"

"We thought we would tell you personally, Captain," said the taller of the two men in the doorway. Carlin hadn't noticed them come up.

"Sir?" Carrot said, saluting.

"Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, you are under arrest for aiding and abetting a murderer in his crime. Please come with us."

"'Ere, you can't do that!" Nobby squeaked, nearly dropping his helmet. The shorter man looked him up and down appraisingly. (2)

"Actually," he said, "I rather believe we can. Captain?"

Carlin felt the bile rise in her throat as she watched Carrot. This wasn't happening. This can't be happening. They can take Vimes, sure, but he always bounces back. Captain Carrot, though... what sick mind could think such a thing?

"Yes, It's your duty, after all," he said quietly, and gave Nobby a bright smile. "Don't worry, Nobby... it'll all be set right soon enough." Carrot turned to Carlin, and gave her a slightly different sort of smile. "Let Angua know, won't you? Don't let her worry too much. And about your men... you may want to have them look into the Lady Sybil."

Carlin got a worried look on her face. "Look into the--?"

"Er, I mean the hospital," Carrot said quickly, and turned toward her, presumably so he could gesture better. Carlin couldn't help but notice that it also meant that his back was facing the men in the door. "The Lady Sybil Hospital. Dr Lawn is a physician there. You know? I hear they're adding a new animal hospital wing as well," he added, almost as an afterthought, but he had an extremely concentrated, desperate look on his face. "I think you may find something that could help your investigation."

"My investigation?"

"Yes," he said vehemently, and the men stepped forward to take his arms.

"That's enough, Captain. We have to go."

"Very well then... shall we?"

They left, and there was a hush in the room.

The other shoe had dropped.

"Shit," Carlin said in a very, very quiet voice.

* * *

"I have some rather interesting news for you, Commander Vimes." 

Vimes jolted out of a restless sleep. He'd learned to sleep sitting up all right, but not well, and these ropes were beginning to dig into his skin. His eyelids were made out of felt. His wrists were noodles. His head... well, his head felt a bit like a swamp dragon. (3)

The woman was back, sitting pristinely in a chair across from his own.

He grunted in a noncommittal sort of way, and she smiled. "I think you'll find this particular piece of news especially fascinating, Commander," she said, flipping through a few pages of her notebook. "Apparently... Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson has been detained for questioning regarding his suspected assistance in the assassination. Any thoughts?"

Vimes spluttered. "Bullshit!"

She smiled again. He was growing to hate that damn smile. "On the contrary, Commander. He is being brought here by the Palace Guard as we speak."

"Like hell he is," he said, a growing feeling of dread in his stomach. "He'll fight them off and be out of there in a shot."

"You are, in fact, quite humorously wrong," she said. "I've received word that he's on his way. Besides, Commander... do you really think our Captain Carrot, good old chap that he is, would deny two officers of the law in pursuit of their duty? Or allow others to come to his aid?"

Vimes glowered. She was right, damn her. Carrot was too damn simple-minded... too damn, too damn noble! Damn... damn!

"Hm," she said, but it was more of a laugh than a word. "Interesting."

"The other shoe's dropped, then."

"The other shoe? Oh, no..." The woman stood, and patted him on the arm in a maternal sort of way. "There are so many more shoes to fall."

* * *

1. "Buggrit! I told 'em, I told 'em, millenium hand and shrimp..." 

2. It didn't take long. Nobby was shorter than most dwarfs, and was the only Watchman who required a a document proving his inclusion in the human race.

3. Nervous, restless, and prone to fatal explosion.


	11. Sic Faciunt Omnes

_Author's Note: Yes, I know. It took me far too long, and dear heavens do I apologize. This chapter was the most fun to write since... ever. Gee whiz._

Chapter 11 - Sic Faciunt Omnes

Carlin stood stockstill in the middle of Vimes's office, staring at the floor. The room seemed empty. Clean. Almost sterile, but Nobby was there so it was still slightly tainted.

The Lady Sybil Free Hospital? Dr Lawn? And what was that about the animal wing...?

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and then glared up at Nobby. "Corporal!" she barked. "AttenHUT!"

Carlin's oft-practiced sergeant voice reached down through Nobby's soul, bypassing his ears, and pulled his brain up by its bootstraps. He snapped off a smart salute, and then looked slightly ashamed. "'Ere, you ain't my commander..." he started.

"Corporal," Carlin interrupted in a grim voice, "we find ourselves in a sorely dire situation."

"Not MY commander..." Nobby muttered.

"Go fetch Sergeant Angua, will you? I need to think for a moment. And whatever you do... don't tell her what's happened. I need to do that myself."

Nobby went, muttered disconsolately all the while.

Carlin counted to twenty before she moved, darting to the desk on twenty-one. Damn, damn... didn't the man have a map of the city anywhere, or did he just trust his own memory of the streets? She flipped hurriedly through the papers piled dangerously high on his desk, doing her level best not to read bits of them as they flashed by. She ended up reading bits anyway, of course... reports mentioned graffitti and vandalism, attacks on influential citizens, thefts with odd patterns... Carlin paused. With all of it laid out all it once like this, maybe it was different from seeing it bit by bit, two or three reports at a time, when you're still worrying about your wife and your son and Nobby getting into the tea kitty... She almost had it. She could smell it. Maybe just a little bit more...

There was a knock at the door, and Carlin scuttled away from the desk hurriedly. "Hello?" she said.

Angua opened the door, and narrowed her eyes when she saw Carlin. "Where's Carrot?" she snarled. "Nobby reeked of fear. And other things, of course, but we won't go into that, all right?"

"Er," said Carlin. "Listen, I'm going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to go spare, because I think I might have a plan."

Angua suddenly looked extremely dangerous. "Where's Carrot?"

"That's the thing," Carlin said in a hopeless sort of way. "Two palace guards just came, to take him into custody. He's suspected of aiding and abetting." Angua glared at her, breathing deeply. "Hey, whoa!" Carlin squeaked, waving her arms and backing away. "You promised not to go spare, remember?"

Angua snorted. "Damn," she said, after a moment. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"

Carlin looked affronted.

"I'm sorry," Angua said quietly, looking down. "I just... didn't want to believe you."

"I understand."

The werewolf's eyes flashed, and she gave Carlin a terrible look. "I'm in charge, then," she growled. "I'm next in the chain of command. And... and so..."

"And so what?"

"We're going to storm the palace."

"No!" cried Carlin, startling both of them. "Um... no," she said again, quieter this time. "You shouldn't. You can't. It... look, I think I can help you. And we should try to contact Lady Sybil as well. Vimes and the captain wouldn't want us to, to storm the palace... they'd want us to figure this damn thing out. Wouldn't they?"

Angua growled. "So you think you can do this, then?"

Carlin blushed. "No, I don't," she said quietly. "I just want to help you to do it."

Angua glared at her steadily for a moment or two. "Well?" she said eventually.

"I," Carlin said, managing to look relieved and devious simultaneously, "have a cunning plan." Angua gave her a funny look. "No, listen, Carrot mentioned something before he left..."

* * *

In the Rats Chamber, Lad Nils shuffled papers around and tried to look important and busy. It was working pretty well so far, with her girls to pick up the slack, but if she let her guard down she knew that that evil little... little... what was his name, clerk boy, would be all over her in a flash, snide comments and all.

She paused for a moment and fanned herself. The thought of the man outside the door being all over her was a little more exciting than she'd care to admit.

There was a soft knock at the door. Lady Nils hurriedly stuff a few very important pieces of paper into random doors and tucked her handkerchief haphazardly into her sleeve. "Enter," she called lazily, spread carefully in her chair.

The door swung open, and Lady Nils, trying not to look too disappointed, straightened. "Oh," she said, a sigh in her voice. "It's you."

"Yes ma'am," the young woman in front of her murmured, bobbing out a neat curtsy.

Lady Nils pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and waved absent-mindedly at the girl. "Oh, really, do sit. We're all equals here."

"You do me far too great an honor, m'lady."

Lady Nils smiled. "Hmhm," she said, and preened for a moment. "It is a habit of mine, I suppose. Now then, what was it you wanted?"

The young lady sitting in front of the painfully tidy desk smiled slightly, her dark hair twisted back sharply into a tight bun. She wore one of those ridiculous simple, severe, and black dresses that somehow still manage to look ravishing despite the obvious intended effect of governess-esque brusqueness.

She held a thin sheaf of papers, and tapped them edgewise on her knee to straighten them. "I have completed the current round of questioning, m'lady," she said quietly, calmly, watching the older woman in front of her from underneath lowered lashes. "You wished me to report our findings?"

"Oh, yes, goodness, do go on," Lady Nils tittered, flapping her handkerchief about. "I imagine that Vimes fellow is getting up to all sorts of trickery and vindictive sneakiness. Just like a man."

The young lady smiled, in expression of comedy so sudden it seemed almost forced. "Yes, yes," she said. "He is of course being led entirely by his masculine humors, my lady is correct as usual. He seems easy to flabberghast. It's a laughably simple affair to pin him down, as well. I suspect our terrier is not as sharp as he believes himself to be. Perhaps he has begun to touch drink again?"

Lady Nils sniffed and made a face ringing with disapproval. "Ah, drink... poison of man. A fitting end, I suppose. Inebriated in their own imagined self-worth. Do continue."

"The good Captain is, likewise, extremely simple and easy to confound. I imagine he is astonished that females such as ourselves could see through his hilariously dunder-headed plot." At this she smiled again, and watched Lady Nils carefully.

The older woman laughed and gave a "just you and me then, eh?" wink. "What a silly man he is. Thank goodness he's out of power and behind bars."

"Indeed," the young woman said, and smiled a real smile. A smile that knew what it was about. A smile, essentially, with fangs in.

Lady Nils laughed nervously.

* * *

"Hmm," Carlin said, through a mouth full of rubbery sultana. "What a mystery this is, then."

Carlin, along with Angua, stood across the street from the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. Carlin ate curry out of a disposable1 container, but slowly, and without putting much thought into it. They had been staring at the hospital for roughly the last five billion years, but any sign of a new animal-care facility failed to show itself.2 It was beginning to get tedious.

"I don't think there is one, Sergeant," Angua said slowly, thinking to herself.

"Commander," Carlin replied automatically, then realized what she'd just said. "I mean... that is... er..."

"Hmm," said the werewolf, and crossed the street. Carlin swallowed her aorta and followed close behind.

Angua marched through the door, the smaller woman trailing nervously behind in a cloud of worry and evaporated curry. "Hello!" she said brightly, leaning over the reception desk and giving the poor, waifish young man behind it one of her toothiest grins. "Where might we find Dr Lawn? I'm afraid my friend here is having some urgent and rather humiliating trouble with her lady parts." Behind her, Carlin choked noisily on a piece of mutton and turned a deep bluish-red.

On the other side of the desk, the receptionist was quickly gaining on Carlin in the Turning Funny Colors Marathon. "I'll just get him for you, shan't I then?" he squeaked, and hurried into a back room.

"'Rather humilating trouble with her lady parts?' What are you thinking!" Carlin hissed, mortified.

Angua waved a hand dismissively. "Don't you know what Dr Lawn did before he worked here? Mainly Seamstresses, that's what."

Carlin got an oddly faraway expression on her face. "Dr Lawn did Seamstresses?" she said, in a dreamily horrified voice.

Angua's brain came to a grinding halt. "Er, wait. No! I meant treated them. Not did them. Er. That is."

"Ladies?"

They both spun. Dr Lawn, looking bemused, stood in the doorway to their left. Angua won the Turning Funny Colors Marathon by default, so Carlin stepped forward, holding her disposable curry container in the grimmest way possible. "My dear Doctor," she said in a serious voice, "I'm afraid I treated myself to a Seamstress by doing her and now I require some rather urgent and humiliating animal care for my lady parts."

"Ah, I see," said Dr Lawn. "Well, fortunately, I just finished with what seems to be the exact same sort of case, so I have everything all laid out in my office. Would you ladies care to join me?"

"Ye gods," said Angua, turning white.3

* * *

1 "Just dump 'er inna river! She'll be right! No worries!"  
2 Possibly out of shame.  
3 Thereby disqualifying herself and forfeiting the Championship to Sergeant Colon. 


	12. Non Sum Pisces

_Author's Note: Again - took forever. I was working and studying like crazy and the quarter only just ended. Expect more - and more frequent - updates. At least until winter quarter starts rolling... ye gods. oo;;_

Chapter 12 - Non Sum Pisces

If you somehow manage to move throughout the great city of Ankh-Morpork without being noticed you are, well, most likely dead. Or Death. Either one.

No matter how nondescript you are, no matter how mediocre, how average, how... fit in you appear, somebody's got their eye on you.

They're watching, and they're just waiting for you to slip.

* * *

She moved through the midday crowds with an ease befitting her apparent stature. She swung alongside merchants and peddlers and, once in a while, a worried and distracted watchman.

She was proceeding, and she was good at it.

Eventually she proceeded down the stairs and though the door and onto a barstool belonging to the fine establishment known as the Bucket, letting herself order a bloody mary and placing her carefully organized sheaf of papers onto the grimy counter.

She was taking a risk, sitting here in the cops pub. She smiled around her glass. No crime had been committed, of course, (of course) but a risk was a risk in this man's town. She patted her tight bun carefully to catch any loose strands, and set her cup down gently on the counter.

"Ms Strom," she said, without turning, and the girl behind her had to swallow her own heart.

* * *

"Ye _gods_," Carlin exclaimed, eyes huge. "Do you use this to inspect ladyparts? It's so... so... ominously twiddly!"

Dr Lawn carefully took the ominously twiddly implement out of the watchman's hands, laid it gently on a cloth covered metal tray, and waved his hands in the air as though he'd just thrown out of mice cadaver. "You may want to wash your hands," he said in a mildly tense sort of voice. "With lots of soap. The sink is over there. But what was this about urgent and humiliating animal care?"

"Oh," Angua said. "Well, that was sort of a lie."

Dr Lawn gave her a doctor look. "I see."

"Sorry about that," said Carlin over her shoulder. "It was spur of the moment."

"Young lady, I do hope you don't take this the wrong way... but it would serve you well to focus your energies more on scrubbing and less on, well, anything else, really."

Carlin went white. "Oh dear."

"Indeed. Now, Sergeant... what did you really want to speak with me about?"

Angua steeled herself. The scent of human blood was creeping underfoot in tinkly green waves of stench, making her thoughts dull and her teeth sharp. She had to do this like a human... like a woman. "Well... er... have any new wings been added recently?"

Dr Lawn looked at the ceiling in thought. "There's the intensive care unit in the Body Order wing... but that's not a whole wing, just a few specially-fortified rooms within an existing wing. And we put it in a year ago anyway, after that whole mess with the post office burning down. But no, there haven't been any wings added."

"But Captain Carrot said-"

"Keep scrubbing, Commander. If you know what's good for you, by the gods, keep scrubbing."

"Er."

"He did," said Angua, trying not to get irritated. The reek of this place... "He said there was a new veterinary wing. Do you have any insight as to--?"

"Wait," said Carlin, dropping the soap and staring at Angua's reflection in the grimy mirror. "Say that again."

"Er... 'do you have any-'"

"No, the other bit, before that."

"... 'A new veterinary wing'...?"

"Gods dammit!" Carlin groaned, spinning. "That damn sneaky bastard! If only he hadn't had to be so damn _cunning_!"

* * *

Bella Strom swallowed her heart and moved to sit next to the stately woman. Bella knew she hadn't made a sound... it was unnatural, that's what it was.

"Reporting," she murmured.

The woman took a genteel sip of her drink. She looked like she was supposed to be holding charity balls and organizing luncheons for your better class of impoverished individuals, but instead she was sitting on a barstool in a grungy policeman's pub drinking an alcoholic fruit beverage out of a glass that could be considered three different health hazards all by itself. "Proceed," she said, and smiled in what seemed to be intended as an encouraging sort of way.

"Sergeant von Uberwald is dealing with the authority quite nicely," Bella said, waving off the barman. "The Klatchian girl, Commander Carlin, seems to be fumbling a bit. But she's doing all right, I suppose. Better than... some."

"Mm. And the vampire?"

"Sally? Hmm. Not much to report. She seems to be going along with everything. Not like we expected."

The woman gave a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement. "How about our girls?"

Bella narrowed her eyes unconciously, respecting the secrecy and trust between them. "They're doing all right. The young one, well, she's still wet behind the ears... but she'll do well in time."

"It's good to know you're keeping an eye out for them, dear," the woman said, and gave Bella a warm smile. "Thank you for meeting for a quick chat with me. Unfortunately, I really must be off."

"Um, yes," Bella said, and waited for the door to close before she waved the barman over to her end of the bar. That woman... she was going to need a stiff drink to calm her nerves.

And outside the woman set off on a peculiar, and specially indirect route back to the palace, winding around two bridges, three marketplaces, and the Shades.

Four eyes watched her come and go.

The owners of the eyes would be surprised if they had the time to be surprised these days.

--


	13. Minutus Cantorum, Minutus Balorum

_Author's Note: For those of you who are wondering, it's a right bugger trying to write dialogue for Coffin Henry. So I just don't. Haha!_

Chapter 13 - Minutus Cantorum, Minutus Balorum...

"Cunning," said Angua, shooting Carlin a flat stare underneath arched eyebrows and raised hackles. "What are you going on about?"

"Damn... damn and hell and damn," Carlin muttered, wringing her hands absent-mindedly as she stared at the floor. "I've been going about this all wrong..."

"Commander--"

"Dr Lawn," interrupted Carlin, holding her frothy hands out in front of her, "I need your trust. Do I have that?"

"Well," he said amicably, leaning back as subtly as he could, "you have my trust as long as you don't try to touch me."

"Good," she said. "We need to get Vetinari out of the palace as soon as possible, and into Mr Vimes's house."

"Commander," the good doctor began, "I really don't think it would be a good idea to move the patrician."

"Maybe not," she said, "but only if you ignore all the other threats to his health."

Angua narrowed her eyes. "Those being?"

Carlin gave her a heavy look. "All the people in the palace who want him dead."

* * *

It's the poor man's life underneath the bridge. 

The men who lived under the bridge were freelance panhandlers and muck entrepreneurs, the people who lived on the fringes of society. They sang in order to be paid to go away, they hung about in order to get hard lumps of bread thrown at them. They fished lemon slices out of the Ankh for their tea and hocked loogies onto innocent(1) bystanders for amusement.

They weren't members of the Beggars Guild. They were above that sort of thing.

"'Ere, Ron and I saw somefin' odd over by the Bucket."

"Buggrit, millenium hand and shrimp."

The Duck Man looked up. "Odd?"

Gaspode sneezed and scratched his ear with a bedraggled back paw to advertise his practiced nonchalance. "Fancy society lady muckin' about in the copper's pub. Don't see that everyday, not when it isn't Lady Sybil."

"Some women find the uniform attractive."

"This one don't. You can smell it on her. She's disgusted. Been smelling that a lot on the bitches these past few weeks."

Arnold Sideways waved his boot in the air. "It's cause 'a all these new coppers," he grumbled. "The fancy ones who don't be lettin' a poor innocent soul like I take a quick leak onna' palace. Out of sight, mind. Behind them fancy rock wossnames."

"Pedestals."

"Wotcha. Them's the duck."

Gaspode wrinkled his muzzle in a concerned sort of way. "Don't think that's it."

"Damn fancy coppers," Arnold Sideways muttered under his breath. "It's disgustin', letting them prance about."

"Sooner or later," the Duck Man mused, "one of them is going to arrest the head of the Thieves Guild again."

"Hmm," said Gaspode, his mind in faraway places.

* * *

"Wait!" Angua yelled and stumbled out the door after Carlin. "Where are you going?" 

"To talk to Lady Sybil," Carlin said through stiff lips. "There's things to be done."

The werewolf caught up easily and swung into an easy trot beside the smaller woman. "Maybe if you'd like to explain to me what the hell you think is going on," she said tersely, "I could help."

Carlin stopped still in the middle of the street, stood quietly for a moment, and then bopped herself on the forehead a few times. "I swear I've got it," she said between smacks, "it just keeps getting all tangled."

"Start from the beginning and go from there."

"There is no beginning!"

"Well, start from _a_ beginning, then," Angua said, snarling a bit despite herself.

Carlin groaned and clutched at her face. "I think -- I _think_ -- that Carrot thinks there are people in the palace who want Vetinari dead, and we have to get him out no matter what. To Lady Sybil's. And Dr Lawn can help us. But it's important, and I almost know why, but I just can't... I just can't quite get my finger on it."

"You're still making no sense."

"He'd figured something out, don't you see? He said that he was helping me but I knew that wasn't right -- it was just cover up. I had just offered to help with the Vetinari case, and then the guards came and -- well, look, I think that he was trying to tell me something without them figuring out what I meant, and I keep feeling as though the answer is just on the other side of the next tree but by the time I get there I'm just as much in the woods as I was before."

Angua worked her jaw for a moment. "We're busting him out of there," she muttered.

"You think that'd work?"

"No. 'Personal isn't the same as important.' Damn!"

Carlin's face fell, and she turned to look about her, giving herself time to think. "Well, look," she said after a moment. "We don't have all the information but we're pretty sure Vetinari needs to be dragged the hell out of the palace, right?"

Angua grimaced. "I'll concede that."

"Right. Then let's do that before someone else gets arrested. How's that?"

"Sergeant!"

The two spun.

"Hi there, Sergeant Angua!" Nell trilled, snapping off a perky salute. "How are things? Isn't it a lovely day? I'm just loving this weather. Absolutely wonderful for this time of year, don't you think? And the foliage! Brilliant pinks... well, of course, my lodgings are over by the university, so the foliage isn't so much pink as just, well, pigs hanging from the trees. It's really quite interesting. They make quite a bit of noise at sunrise. It's so cute!"

Carlin and Angua stood still for a moment, slack jawed and staring.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant," Jane mumbled. "She's had coffee today."

"What... are you..." Angua started, but shook her head. "Look, you two. Commander Carlin and I need your help. Lance-Constable Todd, run and tell Sergeant Colon that I'll be back soon and to clear out a big room with a table in it. I want a map of the city on the table, got me? Tell him that. Lance-Constable Chung, go back to the Yard and tell Cheri to send a clacks to Lady Sybil asap, telling her I'll be over there soon."

"What's going on?" Jane said, a suspicious look in her narrow eyes.

"Captain Carrot's been arrested," Angua said, "and we think we know why. Now get going!"

"Aye aye, cap'n!" Nell said, saluting again.

"I'm a sergeant," Angua snarled. "Carrot is the only Captain of the watch, arrested or not!"

* * *

"Now that is just low, Commander," said the woman in the doorway. 

Vimes grunted awake. "Zuh?"

"Using the commander of a foreign country's police force to do your dirty work, just because she's a sammie? I'm very disappointed in you."

"The what?"

"Commander Teren Carlin," she said, sitting in the chair across from him and smoothing her skirt over her knees. "Surely you remember the name of your co-conspirator? But fear not -- the city will deal with her quickly and effectively."

The woman smiled, and patted her hair into place.

* * *

(2) For a given value of innocent. 


End file.
